


No. 7

by foreignconstellations



Series: Home is Where the Heart is [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bromance, Fluff, Gen, Human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreignconstellations/pseuds/foreignconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were three poor college students in a cheap, rundown apartment (No. 7, which Antonio said was lucky and Gilbert thought was stupid).</p>
            </blockquote>





	No. 7

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as an English assignment on 'belonging', which is why it's so very sappy.

Gilbert had never been inside Francis’ room before (that might seem odd to some people – they’d been living in the same apartment for three months, after all. But there was never any reason to, and there was never any reason he should _want_ to), so he took a moment to survey it. It was very neat – blue sheets precisely turned down, Francis’ girly skin creams (or something; like Gilbert knew) in a row on his dresser. There was a light blue shirt on the end of the bed, and Gilbert snatched it up (probably wrinkling it, and Francis was bound to give him an earful, but like he cared).

 

“Francis, you pansy,” he yelled, marching in to the bathroom (Gilbert marched pretty much everywhere; it made him look purposeful and more awesome). “This the shirt you wanted?”

 

Francis shot him a distracted smile, busy rapidly combing something in to his hair (if you asked Gilbert, Francis looked girly no matter what stupid things he did to his hair. Francis rarely asked Gilbert). “Thank you, Gilbert,” he said, then winced as he noticed the shirt’s rumpled condition.

 

Gilbert tossed it at him. “You can get your own things next time, you ass.”

 

“I’ll have to, if you keep treating my clothes like that. Though I should’ve guessed you would, from the state of your ensemble.”

 

“Listen here, Frenchy-“ Gilbert was cut off (which was immensely irritating, because his next line would have been awesomely cutting and probably would’ve made Francis _cry_ ) by a knock at the door.

 

“That you, Antonio?” yelled Gilbert, leaving Francis to his hair products and marching into the hall.

 

“Hello, Gilbert! I forgot my keys again. Could you let me in?”

 

“Tonio,” said Gilbert, fumbling with the lock. “One of these days, I’m just going to leave you out there.”

 

He pulled open the door to find Antonio smiling at him. “Don’t be silly, Gilbert,” he said, pushing past him into the apartment. “You’d never do that.”

 

Gilbert sighed, and shut the door.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

They were three poor college students in a cheap, rundown apartment (No. 7, which Antonio said was lucky and Gilbert thought was stupid). It had been difficult, those first few weeks – best friends they may have been, but they were not accustomed to sharing the same small space – but they’d eventually sorted themselves out, and attained a certain level of domesticity (though they’d all deny they were _any_ form of domestic till they were blue in the face). They bought Francis a mirror for his room, so he didn’t spend so much time hogging the only bathroom (but because he _had_ been hogging the bathroom for the better part of a fortnight, Antonio and Gilbert made sure to buy one that was particularly unsightly. In revenge for _that_ , Francis still insisted on using the bathroom mirror half the time – he said the light was better). They bought a small tomato plant in a pot for Antonio, which lived on the kitchen windowsill. Caring for it mellowed him out considerably. They hid Gilbert’s combat boots until he agreed to stop wearing them inside (it was more difficult to march in a manly fashion while only wearing socks, but Gilbert maintained he was awesome enough to pull it off).

 

They worked out a schedule. Francis cooked dinner most days, because he was French and all his classes were in the mornings. Antonio cooked whenever Francis had a date or too much homework or a disagreement with the kitchen implements – he could do wonderful things with his tomatoes, when they were grown (it always slightly unnerved Gilbert and Francis that Antonio _chopped up_ and _ate_ his tomatoes after caring for them like his own children for several months. He made delicious salsa though, so they let it slide).

 

Gilbert insisted he was Prussian and refused to cook anything but wurst. Neither Francis nor Antonio knew what this had to do with anything, especially since there hadn’t _been_ a Prussia for sixty years, but they delegated him to the washing up anyway. He also only had afternoon classes, so he was often the one sent out to buy ingredients for whatever Francis or Antonio were cooking that night.

 

They all ate dinner together in the living room (because they couldn’t afford a dining table), and afterwards packed away the leftovers for their lunches the next day (Francis was adamant about the importance of three good meals a day, and besides, it saved money).

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Where did you stay last night, Antonio?” Francis heard from down the hall. He frowned as he buttoned his shirt (he’d managed to get almost all the wrinkles out, thank goodness).

 

He heard Antonio laugh. “Lovi’s.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding,” breathed Gilbert. “Did you guys finally…?”

 

Antonio chuckled nervously. “Heh. Um. Are you there, Francis?”

 

Francis smiled to him, and swept into the hall to rescue his friend. “Good morning, Antonio.”

 

“Don’t change the subject,” snapped Gilbert.

 

Francis ignored him. “It’s 8:30,” he told Antonio. Antonio looked at him blankly (Francis despaired for him sometimes, he really did). “You have to be at class in half an hour.”

 

“Oh,” said Antonio. “I’d better get ready, then.” He ambled into his bedroom.

 

Francis turned to Gilbert. “You might learn to read the atmosphere a little. Anyone can see nothing happened.” (Francis considered himself to be a student of ‘the science of love’, but really it was psychology). Before Gilbert could answer, Francis grabbed his bag and went for the door. “Buy eggs!” he called over his shoulder as he left.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Antonio worked part time at a grocer’s shop, and made good use of his employee discount. This resulted in all of them eating very organic meals, which was fine with Francis (who thought it was better for his health) and Antonio (who just liked fresh, organic food). Gilbert, however, insisted he was Prussian, damn it, and therefore had to eat some type of sausage (preferably wurst) three times a day (Gilbert insisted he was Prussian a lot. Francis and Antonio had just learned to go with it). Antonio told him if he wanted to eat something else, he could buy it and cook it himself, and no-one was forcing him to eat Antonio’s and Francis’ meals anyway. Gilbert, who didn’t get paid much at his weekend job at a record store, settled for muttering under his breath a lot (he kept eating Francis’ and Antonio’s dinners though – un-Prussian they may have been, but they were damn delicious).

 

Francis worked in a bookstore. He’d applied there long ago in an attempt to attract the attention of some boy with large eyebrows, and found he liked it very much, so he stayed. When the store wasn’t busy, he handwrote the first drafts of his psychology papers in a purple notebook. Gilbert and Antonio often came in and bothered him, when they didn’t have better things to do.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Antonio sat on the kitchen bench and looked morosely at his tomato plant. His tomato plant would never leave him. His tomato plant would never yell at him, or hit him, or accuse him of cheating on it with other tomatoes. His tomato plant would always be there for him.

 

“Antonio,” said a voice from behind him. “Are you crying over your tomatoes again?”

 

“Hello, Gilbert,” Antonio said without looking round. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

 

“Answer the question, Tonio.”

 

“I’m not crying,” said Antonio, which was true.

 

Gilbert snorted. “No, but you look like someone just shot your puppy. Out with it.”

 

Antonio sighed. “Lovino broke up with me.”

 

“Lovino breaks up with you at least once a month.”

 

“I think… I think it’s for real this time.” Maybe he’d just stay here with his tomato plant forever. It was the only thing that would always be there for him.

 

Behind him, Gilbert swore. “I’m calling Francis,” he said, voice softer than Antonio had ever heard it. Antonio heard him fishing his phone from his pocket.

 

“Francis? I don’t care, you have to come home, _now_. It’s Antonio. Lovino broke up with him. Yeah, I _know_ , but he says it’s for real this time. He won’t stop staring at his tomatoes. Fine, hurry up.”

 

“I’m fine, you know,” said Antonio.

 

“Like hell you are,” snapped Gilbert. “Stop moping around, Antonio. You and Lovino will be back together by the end of the week. And even if you aren’t, there are loads of other people out there, okay?”

 

Antonio sniffed. “But… Lovi…”

 

“Lovi doesn’t deserve you, always breaking up with you like this.”

 

Antonio turned around, surprised. “Gilbert…”

 

“What? Francis isn’t the only one that can be supportive.” Gilbert had gone faintly pink around the ears. Antonio blinked at him.

 

“… Thank you,” he said, still feeling faintly surprised.

 

Gilbert’s ears got pinker. “S’nothing.”

 

Gilbert was saved from further embarrassment by the sound of the front door banging open. “Antonio, Gilbert, where are you?”

 

“Kitchen,” called Gilbert. Antonio slid off the bench.

 

Francis bustled into the kitchen, weighed down by psychology textbooks. “I came as quick as I could,” he panted, setting them down on the recently vacated bench. Then he wrapped his arms around Antonio, muttering things into his ear in rapid French.

 

Antonio wasn’t quite sure what to think. “I… I’m fine, you know.”

 

“Oh, shut it,” said Gilbert, and hugged him as well. Then, “Damn it, Francis, keep your hands to yourself.”

 

Francis laughed, and let go of them. “Now, where have you put my recipe book?” he said, rolling up his sleeves.

 

Antonio frowned. “I thought I was cooking tonight. Don’t you have a paper due?”

 

Francis shrugged elegantly, then smiled as he found the recipe book behind the toaster. “It can wait. Gilbert, help.”

 

“Fine, but don’t you dare touch me again,” snapped Gilbert, edging as far from Francis as it was possible to be while still being inside the small kitchen. Francis just laughed.

 

Antonio watched his two best friends bustle about, and thought that maybe his tomato plant _wasn’t_ the only thing that would never leave him.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Both Antonio and Gilbert stayed at No. 7 that Christmas; Antonio because he couldn’t afford to travel back home, and Gilbert because he didn’t particularly want to see his parents ever again. Francis left on the twentieth. Both Gilbert and Antonio had to help him lift his luggage into a taxi.

 

“Damn Francis, you didn’t have to take everything you own,” said Gilbert.

 

“We’ll miss you,” Antonio translated.

 

Francis smiled at them both, a little oddly. “ _Au revoir_ ,” he said, then he got into the taxi and left.

 

It was odd, without Francis in the apartment. It felt far too quiet and empty, despite Gilbert marching around extra loudly (but still in socks) to make up for it. Antonio had been given time off from the grocers for the holidays, but Gilbert had picked up extra shifts, and Antonio spent a lot of time in the record store with him, speaking Spanish to charm customers and bringing Gilbert lunch from the Chinese place across the street (Antonio wasn’t used to cooking every night, so they got take-out a lot instead).

 

Francis returned only several days after Christmas, looking tired.

 

“Weren’t you supposed to be gone till the end of January?” asked Antonio, once he’d finished hugging Francis hello.

 

Francis smiled his odd little smile again. “I missed home.”

 

“Well, good,” said Gilbert. “I was getting sick of take-out.”

 

Francis twitched. “You had take-out in my house?”

 

“Apartment,” Antonio corrected.

 

“ _Our_ apartment,” added Gilbert, whose phone had started to ring. He took it out and looked at it, then hung up without answering.

 

“Your parents?” Francis asked. Gilbert shrugged.

 

“Don’t worry about them,” said Antonio. “You’ve got us.” And he caught both Francis and Gilbert in a hug.

 

“Stop being such a sap, Tonio,” snapped Gilbert, shoving him off. But he was smiling.


End file.
